The Spider’s Invisible String

This morning, what do I see?

A single flower, pink, on the bushes Ralph once cut down. The bush that has never flowered in the four years we’ve been here—until now, until today.

We’ve read it’s poisonous to dogs, and we have two, and a granddog, who zoom around the stretch of grass. But now I wonder if it was the bush we thought it was because it never bloomed until we cut it back, until we tried to kill it.

Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, more beautiful because of the death of oneself.

Death makes space for beauty.

We thought something was beautiful as is, but we didn’t know its real potential until we killed it and then let it grow again.

“The Lord leads with unfailing love and faithfulness all who keep His covenant and obey His demands.” —Psalm 25:10

***

The mourning dove coos.

A dragonfly sprints in infinite circles.

Three little birds flutter and rest on stark white branches.

The clouds turn pink, then pinker in places too thin to hold more than a sprinkle or two.

Flocks of small black birds—babies really—flap and flitter and fly toward the bayou. It’s breakfast time, I suppose.

I try to reach them with my thoughts, my emotions, my experiences, words, so I whisper, "If you slow down and straighten up, maybe wave your wings once or twice, then pick a landing wire and always face the rising sun, then you can relax and breathe and take solace that you're perching inside an enchanted world of wonder."

“Come to Me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.” —Matthew 11:28

***

What is that I hear?

Grasshoppers, maybe? Meadow katydids?

Their legs, their voices wax and wane. Soft, then loud, soft, then loud.

Each body, legs rasping, warming with the morning sun.

They're quieter than their nighttime neighbors, the crickets and katydids that scream as if they need to dominate the dark.

But behind one cloud's noise, (a cloud, a plague, a swarm) the amplified sound of their hollow legs inspires their neighbors' wings, to vibrate, oscillate, and sing.

What is that called in music?

I should know. I grew up with a mother who wore many hats, her favorites being everything that allowed her to strike a piano.

Trill? Vibrato? Crescendo? An undulation loop?

The crow flaps into my periphery, subverting my attention. He’s wacky and wild. Tilts side to side, acting like he’s a drunkard riding a roller coaster. Not just a loop-de-loop, but the kind where your feet dangle and your legs whip from left to right—as if he were a mother mouse trying to survive the clutch of an eagle’s claw.

“Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord will personally go ahead of you.” —Deuteronomy 31:8

***

School is in session.

The birds are back, all in a row on a wire, watching the sunrise.

The clouds have turned a golden yellow now, having lost their pink hue.

I suppose the time for pink is my favorite, and I guess that’s because it’s rare. Or maybe it’s only rare because I never used to awake before the sun. So it was rare for me, but not rare for humanity.

But more often than not, the sunrise temporarily lends the clouds its rouge to brush life onto their pallid faces.

Maybe sailors only take warning in the morning because that sky can’t be pink unless clouds cover the blue. And clouds bring rain and sound the alarm that storms are on the horizon.

And red sky at night, sailor’s delight, means they are safe as they drift into the harbor, possibly carrying a harvest meant for kings and queens of the home where the hearth is always warm.

“Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty.” —Psalm 91:1

***

It’s peculiar how the mind works.

When we slow down and give it time to process the simplest of things, that’s when we witness the trail that becomes a reflection of a life well lived.

Does the crone worry?

Not as much as she used to.

She’s lived long enough to know everything’s going to be okay.

***

Hundreds of blackbirds coast on by. They flutter as a community, drawing me in.

Don’t wait.

Get the camera.

Take the picture.

Witness, record, preserve.

But watch with your own eyes instead of through the lens.

Because while watching the sun rise through artificial glass may be beautiful, watching it with your own eyes will make you weep.

“I will never fail you. I will never abandon you.” —Hebrews 13:5

***

Instructions for Next Wednesday

Make the espresso.

Bring the journal, the pen, the camera.

Pray.

Or simply talk to God.

Ask a question or just say thank You.

Look around.

What do you see?

Pick one thing.

Like, I spy with my little eye something pink.

Describe it more.

Five petals, slender dark leaves.

Reminds me of a butterfly bush. The purple petals that would drop every night in my mother’s garden in Florida in the last years of her life, only to bloom more magical petals in the morning as the sun whispered, Wake up.

Let your mind wander into memory and write the action down.

Color it in along the way with hue and texture and sound and smell, with Spirit that leads you back to where you began. Richer for the experience.

“Kind words are like honey—sweet to the soul and healthy for the body.” —Proverbs 16:24

***

Funny side note.

The flower, the one we tried to kill, is called Oleander.

One of the OG villains in the book I’m writing right now. Her name is Oleander.

It’s most interesting how the webs we weave leave hidden shadows that one day you notice, and they make you chuckle because, instead of seeing the shadows, we choose to look at the spider’s trail more closely.

And that’s when we finally notice the spark of light that sits in the drop of dew and balances on a nearly invisible string.

Your eye follows the strand and suddenly sees a chain of tiny dewdrops, each one carrying its own spark.

You pull back to see the entire web, and that’s when the rising sun blinds you.

Again, you weep.

You may ask, “But why do I weep?”

The obvious answer is because you’re staring directly into the light.

But remember, if you will, the obvious is often not the answer you’re searching for.

So you must ask again. Maybe this time, flip it upside down or tilt your head like a drunken bird and look at it from a different perspective.

You may just chuckle, as I often do, because the weeping offers a gift you never knew existed until you made the choice to finally open your eyes and, for the first time, see, really see, all the possibility.

“This is the day the Lord has made. We will rejoice and be glad in it.” —Psalm 118:24